He would put on his ragged robe, singed in many spots by the sparks of roadside campfires, and leave quietly. A dumb, lazy eunuch, wearing a turban and soft slippers with curled toes, would snore loudly behind the door – a negligent guardian entrusted with the palace’s greatest treasure. Further on, stretching out on the rugs and mats, lay the snoring guards, their heads placed on their bared Turkish swords. Hodja Nasreddin would sneak by them on tiptoes, always successfully, as if he could turn invisible during this time.
And once again, the stony white road would ring and the dust would fly under the brisk hooves of his donkey. The sun would shine over the world in the blue sky; Hodja Nasreddin could stare at it directly, without squinting. Hodja Nasreddin’s song was heard by green gardens and foamy rivers, by grim mountains and green pastures, by dewy fields and barren deserts where white camel bones lie half-buried in the sand. He traveled farther and farther, never looking back, never regretting what he left behind or fearing what lay ahead.
And in the city he abandoned, his memory would live on forever.
High officials and mullahs would pale with rage when they heard his name; water-bearers, camel drivers, weavers, millers, and saddle-makers would tell each other funny stories about his adventures when they gathered in the chaikhanas in the evenings – adventures where he would always emerge victorious. The sultry beauty in the harem would often gaze at the little white stone and hide it in a small pearl coffer when she heard the footsteps of her master.
“Oof!” the fat dignitary would say, panting and wheezing, as he pulled off his brocade robe. “We are completely exhausted thanks to this accursed vagrant Hodja Nasreddin: he’s disturbed and agitated the entire country! I received a letter today from my old friend, the esteemed governor of the Horasan region. To think – the moment this tramp Hodja Nasreddin appeared in his city, the blacksmiths stopped paying their taxes, and the cookhouse keepers refused to feed the guards for free. What’s more, this thief, this defiler of Islam and son of sin, dared to sneak into the governor’s harem and dishonor his favorite wife! Truly, the world has never seen such a criminal! I regret only that this contemptible beggar did not try to penetrate my harem, or else his head would have been sticking on a post in the main square a long time ago!”
The beauty would remain silent, concealing a smile – she was both amused and saddened. And the road kept ringing and the dust flying beneath the donkey’s hooves. And Hodja Nasreddin’s song carried on. In ten years he had been everywhere: in Baghdad, in Istanbul and in Teheran, in Bakhchisarai, in Echmiadzin and in Tbilisi, in Damascus and in Trebizond. He knew all these cities and numerous others, and he was remembered in all of them.
Now he was returning to his hometown, to Bukhara-i-Sharif, Noble Bukhara, where he hoped to assume a false identity and rest awhile from his endless wanders.
Chapter 2
Joining a large merchant caravan, Hodja Nasreddin crossed the Bukharian border, and on the eighth day of his journey, he saw the familiar minarets of the great, famous city far away in the dusty gloom.
Tormented by thirst and heat, the caravaneers shouted hoarsely, and the camels put on speed: the sun was setting, and they had to hurry to make it to Bukhara before the city gates closed. Hodja Nasreddin was riding at the very back of the caravan, surrounded by a thick, heavy cloud of dust; it was the holy dust of his homeland, and it smelled better to him than the dust of other, distant lands. Sneezing and coughing, he spoke to his donkey:
“Well, we are home at last. By Allah, we will find happiness and good fortune here.”
The caravan reached the city wall just as the guards were locking the gates. “In the name of Allah, wait!” cried the caravan-bashi [3], showing them a gold coin from afar. But the gates had already closed, the bolts had clanged shut, and sentries appeared on the towers next to the cannons. A cool breeze began to blow, the rosy tinge in the sky was replaced by the clearly defined crescent of a young moon, and the high-pitched, drawn-out, mournful voices of the muezzins came from all the countless minarets in the hushed twilight, calling Muslims to their evening prayers.
The merchants and caravaneers stood on their knees, while Hodja Nasreddin walked quietly aside with his donkey.
“There merchants have plenty of reasons to thank Allah: they had dinner tonight, and now they will have supper. As for us, my faithful donkey, we have not dined tonight, nor will we sup; if Allah wishes to receive our gratitude, let him send me a bowl of pilaf and you a sheaf of clover!”
He tied his donkey to a roadside tree and lay down right on the ground nearby, placing a stone under his head. Shining webs of stars appeared before his eyes in the clear, dark sky: so frequently had he seen the open sky above him in ten years that he knew every constellation. And he always thought that these hours of silent, wise contemplation made him richer than the richest men – that even though a rich man can eat from golden plates, he must also spend the night under his own roof, and when, at midnight, everything grows quiet, he cannot feel the flight of the earth through the cool blue fog of stars…
Meanwhile, fires were lit under large pots in the caravanserais and chaikhanas adjoining the outside of the toothed city wall, and the rams began to bleat mournfully as they were dragged to slaughter. But the experienced Hodja Nasreddin had thoughtfully settled in to sleep on the windward side, so that the smell of the food would not mock and disturb him. Knowing Bukharian customs well, he had decided to save the last of his money in order to pay the tax at the city gates the following day.
He tossed and turned for a long time, but sleep would not come to him, and it was not at all the hunger that kept him awake. Hodja Nasreddin was plagued and tormented by bitter thoughts; even the starry sky could not console him tonight.
He loved his homeland, and there was no greater love in the world for this crafty joker with a black beard on his copper-tanned face and sly sparks in his clear eyes. The further he wandered from Bukhara in his patched robe, dirty skullcap, and torn boots, the more he loved Bukhara and pined for it. Throughout his exile he always remembered the narrow streets where the carts scrape the clay fences on either side as they pass; he remembered the tall minarets with ornate tiled caps, burning with the fiery brightness of the sun every morning and evening, and ancient, sacred elms with giant nests of storks hanging on the branches; he remembered the smoky chaikhanas built over the aryks [4] in the shade of rustling poplars, the smoke and soot of the cookhouses, the speckled commotion of the bazaars; he remembered the mountains and rivers of his homeland, its settlements, fields, pastures, and deserts; and when, in Baghdad or in Damascus, he met a fellow countryman, recognizing him by the pattern on his skullcap or the particular cut of his robe, Hodja Nasreddin’s heart skipped a beat and he felt short of breath.
Upon his return, he found his homeland even more miserable than when left. The old emir had been buried long ago. Over the last eight years, the new emir had managed to completely ruin Bukhara. Hodja Nasreddin saw broken bridges on the roads, meager crops of barley and wheat, dried-out aryks with the bottoms cracked from heat. The fields ran wild with tall weeds and thorny plants, the gardens were dying for lack of water, the peasants had neither bread nor cattle, and beggars sat in rows along the sides of the roads, pleading for a pittance from people just as poor as themselves. The new emir placed detachments of soldiers in every settlement and ordered the inhabitants to feed them for free, he laid the foundations of numerous new mosques and ordered the people to finish building them – he was very pious, the new emir, and twice a year he absolutely had to pay his respects to the remains of the most holy and incomparable Sheikh Bogaeddin, whose tomb towered near Bukhara. He introduced three new taxes in addition to the existing four, set fees for the crossing of every bridge, raised commercial and judicial duties, minted lots of worthless money… Tradecraft was in decline, commerce broke down, and Hodja Nasreddin found his beloved homeland in a dismal state.